The Shadow - The Sledge Hammer Crimes Part 1

THE SLEDGE-HAMMER CRIMES.

Maxwell Grant.

CHAPTER I. WORD FOR THE SHADOW.

THE Mayan Museum formed an oddity against the dusk of Manhattan's sky. Of all the structures in New York, none was more curious than this one. Its setting, moreover, added to its bizarre appearance.

The museum was squatty and square-shaped. Constructed of white marble, it loomed from a terraced plaza that verged an avenue where traffic was heavy and rapid. For this location was in the upper reaches of Manhattan, well north of the broad cross-town street that marked the end of Central Park.

The flattened hill that bore the museum was like a miniature Acropolis. Below the white walled building, beside it and in back, were crumbly, close-built houses scarcely better than tenements. The glittering lights of the avenue offset these dilapidated structures; but behind the museum, the scene was utterly squalid.

The rear street was on a lower level. There, on one side, the museum formed a high, barren wall. On the other side of the street was a row of dingy brick fronts, time-worn and battered. Broken windows outnumbered those that had panes, for most of these old houses were deserted.

The Mayan Museum was as formidable as a fortress. Its lower floor was windowless. Gratings barred access to the narrow, slitted windows of its second floor. The bronze bars broke the monotony of thewhite marble. So did the ma.s.sive front door on the ground floor. It, too, was of bronze construction.

No lights glimmered from the museum. One would have cla.s.sed it as an abandoned edifice. Yet the visitor had only to ring for admittance at the front door. Then-up to six o'clock in the afternoon-he would be admitted. Within, he would find a network of corridors and exhibit rooms, all well lighted.

There, leering Aztec G.o.ds would greet him. Shelves of ancient pottery would attract him. Gla.s.s cases filled with beads and trinkets would compel a long inspection. For the Mayan Museum was crowded with ancient relics brought from Yucatan and Guatemala.

THE curator's office was at the rear of the museum. It was small and cramped, because all larger rooms had been devoted to exhibits. Despite the confines of his office, the curator seldom left the little room.

The endless task of cataloguing kept him constantly busy.

Lewis Lemand was the curator of the Mayan Museum. He was bald, rotund, methodical and easily annoyed; especially by visitors. But on this particular afternoon, Lemand had a visitor in his office; and the man was one whom he was glad to see.

This was Prentiss Petersham, the attorney who represented the Mayan Museum. Tall, sharp-faced, with outthrust lower lip, Petersham had an overbearing air that resembled the expression of an Aztec idol. He looked as though he were trying to mimic some statue that he had seen on his way to the curator's office.

An odd pair, Lemand and Petersham. As odd as the museum itself; as bizarre as the curator's office, which was lined with photographs of Mexican ziggurats and pictures of recent excavations in Guatemala.

But neither the curator nor the lawyer were gifted with a sense of humor. Each admired the other for his solemnity.

Petersham was speaking, while Lemand listened, owlish. The lawyer's tone was gruff; but it expressed keen disappointment.

"It's too bad, Lemand." Petersham shook his shocky mop of gray-streaked hair. "Too bad. But nothing can be done about it. The Luben Expedition made some rare findings in Yucatan; but the entire lot is being s.h.i.+pped to the Aztec Museum, in Chicago."

Lemand was slowly tapping the gla.s.s top of his mahogany desk. His lips showed a wince.

"I know how you feel about it," gruffed Petersham. "The new relics have great value. They should logically have come here. It must be a blow to you, Lemand."

"It is," admitted the bald-headed curator. His tone was a saddened drawl. "And yet, in a sense, it is not unfortunate. I am overburdened, Mr. Petersham. Frightfully overburdened!"

"Overburdened? Why? If you need new a.s.sistants, the board of directors will supply them."

"That would not help. It is responsibility that overburdens me."

"Responsibility for the curios that are already housed here?"

"Yes." Lemand nodded. He had ceased his tapping on the desk. "Particularly because of the pure gold relics that are in the lower exhibit room. They are of immense value, Mr. Petersham."

"Why should they concern you? No visitors are allowed below. That lower exhibit room is as strong as a vault." "Quite. Well protected, too. It has a burglary alarm system of its own; one that is automatic. The doors are protected by a time lock. And yet-well, I am apprehensive. I want no more burden than I have. I am glad, in a sense, that the Luben Expedition favored the Chicago museum. The items that the expedition uncovered are all of gold. Evil men seek gold, Mr. Petersham. Those who protect gold are in danger -"

LEMAND'S drawl had risen to a high pitch. His tone was one that carried fear. Petersham was staring closely, through narrowed eyelids. He was keenly intent when the curator's words ended abruptly.

Petersham noted a look of dread that gripped Lemand's face.

"Listen!" The curator leaned forward and whispered hoa.r.s.ely. "Listen! You will hear the sound that I have heard!"

He paused again. Tense seconds pa.s.sed. Then came a strangely m.u.f.fled sound -one that no ear could have located accurately.

Click-click- The noise ended so sharply that the listeners were startled. Both Lemand and Petersham half imagined that they had heard a third click as an echo. Long tension followed. Petersham broke it with a shrug.

"Nothing of consequence," began the attorney. "Such sounds are not uncommon -"

Lemand's hand was nervous with its interruption. Petersham stopped short. Instantly, the double click was repeated, as though the curator had conjured it with a wave. Lemand chewed his lips; then shook his head.

"I cannot locate it," he said, wearily. "It seems to come from within the wall; but which wall, I cannot decide. Sometimes it is frequent. At others, the interval is great."

Click-click- The elusive sound came again, an instant after Lemand had spoken. The curator quivered. The noise seemed human. Its repet.i.tion ridiculed his statement.

"Listen!" pleaded Lemand. "We must locate it! The sound is ominous! It has persisted since two days ago -"

Another interruption; this was a rap at the closed door of the office. Lemand sank back in his chair. It was Petersham who gave the order to enter. The door opened; a dry-faced attendant stepped in from the lighted corridor and gazed at the shrunken curator.

"What is it, Rome?" queried Lemand, rising weakly in his chair. "Why have you come here to disturb us?"

"It is quarter of six, sir," informed the attendant. "You told me to notify you of the time."

"So I did," nodded Lemand. Then, to the lawyer: "It was on your account, Mr. Petersham."

"I have an appointment," acknowledged the lawyer, rising. "I must leave at once. We have discussed our subject, Mr. Lemand. There is no reason why I should remain longer."

LEMAND conducted Petersham out to the front door of the museum, with Rome tracing their footsteps.

There, the curator drew a bunch of keys from his pocket. He used one large key to unlock the door.After an exchange of handshakes, Petersham departed. Lemand locked the door and returned to his office.

Nervous, Lemand left the office door ajar. Very few minutes had pa.s.sed when he heard voices in the hall. The curator looked up to see Rome entering with a new visitor, a tall heavy-built man with black, pointed mustache. Lemand recognized the arrival and winced.

This was Elvin Lettigue. Lemand knew him as an eccentric millionaire who had donated funds to the Mayan Museum. Because of past philanthropies, Lettigue was always admitted promptly to the curator's office. Nevertheless, Lemand did not relish Lettigue's visits. Whenever the millionaire proposed a gift, it always had too many provisions attached.

"h.e.l.lo, Lemand!" Lettigue's rumble was friendly, his handshake firm. "Just dropped in to congratulate you."

"On what?" queried Lemand.

Lettigue cupped his hand to his ear. The millionaire was hard of hearing. Lemand repeated the question.

"Regarding what?" shouted Lettigue.

"Why, about the new treasures you are gaining. The gold relics brought back by the Luben Expedition.

When will the treasures arrive here, Lemand?"

"Never!" returned the curator, in a loud tone. "They are going to Chicago. To the Aztec Museum."

Anger showed upon Lettigue's bluff face.

"An outrage!" exclaimed the millionaire. "I can't believe it, Lemand. Those treasures belong here."

"Perhaps they do. But we shall not receive them."

Lettigue dropped his arm and caught a huge-headed cane that he was carrying. He pounded the point of the walking stick upon the marble floor of the office.

"Bah!" he rumbled. "They are fools! I contributed to that expedition. I thought surely that the treasures would be donated here. I shall raise a protest."

"It will do no good, Mr. Lettigue."

A pause. Amid it came the evasive sound that had previously troubled Lemand. This time, the m.u.f.fled noise was almost beneath the feet of the standing men.

Click-click- Lemand looked toward Lettigue. The millionaire was muttering to himself. Apparently he had not heard the clicks. Lemand turned toward the door and called for Rome. The attendant appeared.

"Did you hear a noise, Rome?" queried the curator. "Other than our conversation?"

"A clicking noise, sir?"

"Yes. Listen -"

Timed almost to the curator's words came the double click. Its direction was puzzling. Lemand swungabout to face his desk. He stepped in that direction and fumbled nervously with a short, stone-headed hammer-a chance Mayan relic that happened to be in the office.

"Shall I listen for the noise, sir?"

The query came from Rome. The curator shook his head.

"No," he replied. "You can go off duty. I shall remain here, alone, as I have work to do."

"Very well, sir."

A RUMBLE came from Elvin Lettigue, who had been muttering steadily to himself. Apparently, he had not heard either the clicks or the conversation between Lemand and Rome.

"An outrage!" repeated the millionaire. "But you are right, Lemand. Nothing can be done about it.

Nevertheless, I shall protest."

Lettigue swung on his heel and stalked from the office. Curator and attendant heard him pace along the corridor, thumping the floor with his heavy cane. As Lettigue's footsteps faded, Lemand turned suddenly to Rome.

"Go and unlock the door," ordered the curator. "Mr. Lettigue will not be able to go out."

"I left the door unlocked, sir."

"Then go and lock it!" snapped Lemand, angrily. "You were negligent to leave the door open."

"It is not yet closing time -"

"But Davis is off duty to-day. You know my instructions. The door must always be kept locked, except when you or Davis are in the front corridor."

"Sorry, sir." Rome looked rebuked. "I had forgotten."

The attendant left the office. With his departure came two clicks, from somewhere in the wall. Lemand gritted his teeth; determination had replaced his previous dread. Then the curator decided to follow Rome to the front of the museum.

Lemand arrived at the door to find the attendant locking it. He spoke new instructions, his voice a trifle testy.

"You can go Rome," ordered Lemand. "I shall lock the door after your departure."

"Very well, sir."

Rome reversed the direction of the key. He swung the big door inward. Both he and Lemand stared as a man came briskly up the steps. A wiry figure stepped into the light. Curator and attendant saw a keen face.

"Mr. Lemand?"

The curator nodded at the arrival's query.

"My name is Burke," explained the visitor. He looked youthful in the light. "From the New York Cla.s.sic.

I came to find out about the curios s.h.i.+pped by the Luben Expedition. When do you expect them?" "They are not coming here," returned Lemand. "They have gone to the Aztec Museum in Chicago."

He nodded to Rome. The attendant stepped out through the door. Lemand clanged the big barrier from the inside. Burke stared blankly; Rome grinned and walked away, out toward the avenue. The clatter of a key sounded within the lock.

OUT in the dark, the reporter stood silent, slowly realizing that his interview with the curator was ended.

Then he smiled. To Clyde Burke, star news gatherer on the staff of the New York Cla.s.sic, this was an unusual experience. Seldom did he get cut short when on the quest for information.

Yet Clyde Burke was still smiling when he walked to the lighted avenue. He covered a block; then stopped at a cigar store. Entering a telephone booth, he put in a call. A quiet voice responded: "Burbank speaking."

"Burke calling," was Clyde's prompt answer. "Report on the Mayan Museum."

"Report."

"Treasures not coming to the Mayan Museum. They are being s.h.i.+pped to the Aztec Museum in Chicago."

"Report received."

Clyde Burke still carried a smile when he strolled from the cigar store. His work was done. He had made his report. But it had not gone to the office of the New York Cla.s.sic. Clyde Burke had duties other than those of a reporter.